


chaser

by chevrefoil



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, azim steppe tribal drama™️, character backstory, except you don’t find them this time, i fudged some lore because i haven’t done any mage quests, it’s like being a kid and losing your parents in the store and you panic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chevrefoil/pseuds/chevrefoil
Summary: Singed fingers show promise, he had replied as they carved the carcass of a baras they had downed.No, Imadu had said, frowning at him. She stood up, her lean form haloed by the bright sun.They show that you fear getting hurt. You will never pass the rite if you remain like this.





	chaser

**Author's Note:**

> i got back into ffxiv and had a burning desire to finally write about one of the xaela tribes i found the most interesting. unfortunately, the semester starts next week right when i feel like writing again lmao.

He had been ten summers, nervous and quiet, when his khan had lashed him to the tree with dappled bark and leaves the color of the setting sun.

“Your ancestors will lend you their strength,” the khan had said, resting a warm and calloused hand on his cheek. He could only imagine how many of the tribe’s children she had tied to their chosen tree, how many children she had seen for the last time on the day of their rite. “How you use it will be up to you.”

He had been ten summers and had begun to tremble against the bark digging into his back when his father had kissed his forehead and said, “We will be waiting for you.”

He had been ten summers and unable to speak a reply when his mother had lovingly squeezed his hand and said, “Remember what we told you.”

He had been ten summers and close to tears when his older sister Imadu had tied an eagle talon bracelet onto his wrist, her hand shaking slightly, and said in a stern voice, “The land is only as unforgiving to you as you let it be, brother; respect it and it will respect you.”

The stars had begun to wink into existence when he had finally freed himself from the tree he had been tied to. He picked up the small knife he had been left near the thicker part of the roots of the tree, grateful that he’d been left with even a small weapon for some measure of security. He shut his eyes, concentrating on his breathing to calm himself, and tried to remember what his mother had first told him. _Use your senses; get your bearings; don’t panic._

The familiar scent of the steppe filled his nostrils—loam and rich earth. He could make out the small silhouettes of the mountain crags to the east blotting out the starry sky. The soft gurgle of a stream came from nearby, accompanied by the soft growling of whatever nocturnal beasts had come to drink their fill. Alone and armed with just the knife, he would be easy pickings for the beasts that roamed around.

He leaned back against the tree, his stomach twisting into knots. He only had a week to reunite with his tribe, a week to pick his way through the steppe, a week in which anything could happen. When he had been younger, watching others who had done their rite stumble into the camp dirty and bloodied and often weak from the long journey had made him nervous. Now that it was his turn, he felt nothing but a crippling fear in his chest and a small voice in his head telling him to not even bother.

He shook his head to clear away the dark thoughts that had begun to gather. He would start small. He would make a fire, bright enough to keep the beasts at bay and keep him warm. He would rest for this first night. Once he awoke, he would begin his journey.

It was easy to find the sticks and stones to make the fire and stay upwind of the beasts wandering around. He set up the skeleton of the fire in the circle of jagged stones he had constructed after scraping away the grassy top with a makeshift shovel. He picked up a stick, closed his eyes and focused, the night whispers of the steppe fading into the background. The khan had said that a deep sea of energy encircled the steppe, that those who were chosen could harness it and bend it to their will. He hadn't been through his rite then, so he couldn’t see if he had such an aptitude; he was to stick to blades, bows, knives, and spears until he received his name and became part of the tribe.

Whenever they went out to hunt, however, out of either love or practicality (he leaned toward the latter), his sister had tried to discreetly teach him the intricacies of magic she was learning herself. Most of the time he’d only manage to singe his fingers; this time had been no different. Imadu had grown frustrated and called him ‘hopeless’ as she rubbed a soothing salve on his fingers. _Singed fingers show promise_ , he had replied as they carved the carcass of a baras they had downed.

 _No,_  Imadu had said, frowning at him. She stood up, her lean form haloed by the bright sun. _They show that you fear getting hurt. You will never pass the rite if you remain like this._

She was right, of course. The steppe was a land as harsh as it was kind, and it spared no one in its judgement. He had to prove her wrong. He had to prove _himself_ wrong. He stared at the stick and focused, trying to bring to the mind what his sister had tried to teach him. The end of the stick began to smoke and then glow; he squashed the pride that welled up within him, fearing it would fizzle out at any moment if he broke his focus. He carefully moved to light the fire with the small ember, and only when it crackled to life did he break out into a relieved smile.

He huddled by the fire. Each small snap of a twig seemed amplified over the crackle of the flames and made him flinch. He couldn’t sleep like this. He could feel their glowing eyes focused on him, their honed claws and sharp fangs waiting to tear into him the moment he let his guard down. He fed the flames periodically, unsure of how long it was before his fatigue caught up to him and sleep took him into its embrace.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set, the sky awash in shades of orange and pink. A cool breeze wafted through the empty plains that made the grass bow low and the faint scent of smoke fill his nostrils. His stomach twisted into knots as a wave of nausea near bowled him over. He resisted the urge to throw up as he looked around the clearing, his entire body numb in disbelief.

He had missed them.

He had _just_ missed them.

He stood there for gods know how long, his stomach churning nervously. What should he do? What _could_ he do? He… He could track them again. He could follow their trail and catch up to them if he started now and didn’t sleep for the next day or two. They couldn’t have gotten far. He could do it—and they would turn him away without so much as a blink as he had seen them do to others. The weight of it was crushing. He had failed his rite. This was his consequence.

A broken sob escaped him as hot tears dripped down his face. “You were right, Imadu,” he whispered. His sister had believed in him, that he was certain about; she had said as much the day before he had been tied to his tree. He had stared at her, trying not to cry, as she tied the bracelet around his wrist, and for the briefest of moments her eyes lifted to meet his.

They were shiny with tears, rare coming from her, but had also held a mixture of uncertainty and resignation. Like she knew and had accepted deep down that this would most likely be the last time they saw each other. 

He hugged his knees to his chest and buried his head in his arms. He wanted to watch as his parents prepared their weapons for the next hunt, listen to their stories of the harrowing ones they participated in when they were younger. He wanted to enjoy a freshly cooked meal with Imadu, tease her about her about her studies, marvel at her progress as she practiced her spell work under her teacher’s watchful gaze.

He got to his feet. His head hurt, his chest hurt, his entire body just _hurt_ , but it was as if he was being moved around by an unseen force rather than controlling himself. He picked up stones and sticks and kindling for a fire. He coaxed it to life somehow, managing not to burn his fingers this time. He sat himself by the stream that flowed not too far from the site, makeshift spear in hand, waiting for fish to pass by. He caught some, somehow.

He cleaned and gutted them, then strung them on another stick to hold over the flame until they were nicely charred and warm. He ate them even though he didn’t want to, knowing he would regret it later.

Stomach now full, he stared at the dancing flames feeding it when it got low. He truly had no idea where to go from here, tribeless and weak as he was. He couldn’t wander the steppe forever. Most other tribes were hostile to outsiders and would take no pity on him. Beasts would make quick work of him if he let his guard down. He sighed and buried his head in his arms again, grief clouding his thoughts. 

Tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow. He would think of something tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> it might be a bit wonky in places but it’s nice to feel good about writing again!! the tribe in particular is the tumet; when a child reaches 10 they tie them to a tree and leave for their next site and are basically like “come back before we leave again... or else lol”. 
> 
> this is the “or else”. 
> 
> as always, thanks for reading!!


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